


Rest in Pieces

by DarkLordOfTheDishPit



Category: Gloryhammer (Band)
Genre: Angst, Angus McFife XIII more like Anguish McFife XIII, Sad, Self-Loathing, Short, Stupid Edgy Bullshit, Suicide, Suicide disguised as sacrifice, Terrorvortex universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 07:01:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29414544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkLordOfTheDishPit/pseuds/DarkLordOfTheDishPit
Summary: Angus found he didn't mind dying so much.
Kudos: 2





	Rest in Pieces

The Hootsman and Ralathor were arguing next to him. Angus could barely concentrate on what they were saying. Everything felt fuzzy and unreal. He couldn’t even feel the pain as he pulled out the knife of evil that was lodged into his side. He clutched the knife and let his arms hang limply at his sides. Everything they said felt like it had been yelled from miles away, distant, muffled, and completely unrecognizable as language.  
“There…. something we can....” the Hootsman exclaimed, while Ralathor monotonously replied, “...don’t know… too risky…” Even though he only caught a few bits of the conversation, he could guess pretty well what they were talking about. As far as Angus knew, Ralathor was the smartest man in the universe (his universe, too, for that matter), and his advice was not to be taken lightly. Angus couldn’t care less about his opinion, though- he’d already made his decision. He was glad, at the very least, that Ralathor had come to the same conclusion as he did. It made telling the two his decision a lot easier.  
“I know what I have to do,” Angus said as he slipped the knife of evil into his belt. “If it’s to protect this world, I, along with the knife of evil, will perish in the fires of Schiehallion. It’s a sacrifice I have to make. I won’t put the universe in danger for my own sake.” The Hootsman stared at him in disbelief.  
“Angus, you can’t be serious!” he exclaimed. Ralathor shook his head.  
“I’m pleased you understand, Angus. I’m sorry it has to end like this.”  
Angus nodded. “I have one last request.” He removed his helmet and balanced it on the handle of his hammer. “Give these to someone worthy. I’m going to use the enchanted jetpack one last time. I’ll leave it at the top of Schiehallion. You can take that too if you want. Thanks for everything.” Angus quickly turned his back to the others and began walking towards the mountain. He half expected -half hoped- that either Ralathor or the Hootsman would yell out to him, a goodbye or something inspirational maybe, or perhaps grab his should and turn him around for one last goodbye hug. There was only silence as he walked off. The only reason he himself didn’t turn around to give his friends one final goodbye was the fear that he’d find their backs turned, already walking off and slowly beginning to erase him out of their lives.  
The start of the climb was easy. Angus had a goal to focus on, and it helped him put the situation (and his friends) out of his mind. He wasn’t in much of a hurry, and he used the jetpack to jump up particularly steep ledges. If he had to be perfectly honest, flying with the jetpack was really fun. So much fun that he ended up using the last of the fuel bouncing around. He probably should have saved it for the top of the mountain, but it’s not like he really needed it to begin with. He did promise he’d leave the jetpack at the top, so he kept it and continued the rest of the journey on foot.  
Angus was cold. He was midway up the mountain now and he longed for the warm touch of another human more than ever; a hug, high-five, or even one of the Hootsman’s mildly-patronizing noogies. He fondly remembered a time, back in his original universe, where Proletius had tried to give Angus a pat on the shoulder. The machines used to reincarnate Proletius were usually very good at detecting and interacting with matter, but they had briefly glitched and caused Proletius’s hand to go inside Angus’s shoulder. He remembered the strange tingling sensation he felt where Proletius’s hand was so vividly, it was like he was there again. He also remembered laughing so hard at the absurdity of the situation that he almost puked.  
The memory brought a smile to his face, but just as soon as the brief moment of joy came, he felt his eyes water. He sat on a rock and cried. His mind flipped through memories of him and his friends fighting and questing and celebrating together like he was looking through a scrapbook. Then he began to picture their future; everyone was happy and had moved on, but they told stories of Angus’s failures and how ultimately useless he had been- especially compared to those noble people that had died on his behalf. He couldn’t blame them for hating him. All he wanted to do was silence his mind, curl up into a ball, and sob until he fell asleep (although he’d prefer it if he were in his room rather than the side of a mountain), but he still wanted to keep a tiny piece of his dignity still intact. He wasn’t very much dignified with the snot and the whimpering that managed to escape his lips, though. He felt pathetic. Scratch that, he was pathetic.  
It wasn’t difficult for him to imagine all the past generations of McFifes all looking down on him in disappointment. He was certain each one of his forefathers would have faired better in this situation than he had. Maybe if it were anyone but him, his original universe would still exist. He supposed dying was probably what he deserved after all this. That thought had been the resounding sentiment ever since he survived the apocalypse, but he knew he had to try to fix some of the damage he’d done by failing to stop Zargothrax in 1992. Now that that was over, he was finally able to do what he wanted. The nagging voice in the back of his head told him he deserved more than death. He grabbed the hilt of the knife of evil. I could give myself what I deserve. He let go of the knife and pushed the thought back.  
Angus, no longer crying, stood back up and continued his trek. The top wasn’t far away now and Angus was tired of thinking. He focused on putting one foot in front of the other, as the urge to just give up and let the vultures take him began to overtake him. If he did that, eventually the effects of the knife of evil would reinvigorate him, and he’d want to live again, and likely start killing others. That, of course, wasn’t an option.  
As he reached the top, he let the jetpack fall from his back. It landed with an alarming clang. He didn’t care about the jetpack or the damage he may have done to it. He didn’t care about anything. Despite this, the thought of jumping into the pit of Schiehallion made his palms sweat. He began to feel fear rising through his chest. Burning to death looked painful. After five minutes of doing nothing but stare into the flaming abyss below him, he began to feel a great deal of self-loathing. I’m such a coward for not being able to do this. I’m selfish for hesitating ‘cause I know it’s best for everyone. I’m an asshole for being allowed to get off this easily. I deserve much worse than this. Everyone is waiting. Everyone hates me. This sucks.  
With these thoughts swirling in his mind, Angus finally jumped.

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutout to google docs for continually autocorrecting “Ralathor” to “Realtor.”


End file.
